


Safety

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: 5980 - Freeform, Day 6 - Bikes, Driving, Established Relationship, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Motorcycles, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Unsafe driving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera had thought they would be safer with him driving." Yamamoto is a dangerous motorcycle driver, but he turns out to be just as distracting as a passenger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety

Gokudera had thought they would be  _safer_  with him driving.

It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. Yamamoto tends to get distracted by the scenery when he’s at the front of the motorcycle, veers across their lane in a way that leaves Gokudera white-knuckled and clinging to his waist with the vague idea of using the other as armor in the inevitable crash that never quite happens. It’s just Yamamoto’s absurd luck, clearly, but eventually it’s going to run out and Gokudera would really rather not be on the back of the motorcycle when it does. So he volunteers to drive them out to the scenic overlook down the road when Yamamoto suggests it, because Yamamoto will somehow persuade him to go if he tries to resist, and it’s easier to save face if he offers to drive, and besides he likes the way the wind catches at his hair if he’s in the front. It’s nice enough that he takes the back roads, keeping the speed down in consideration of the winding curves of the road but giving Yamamoto more than enough scenery to appreciate.

He should have known it wouldn’t be enough to hold the other’s attention. This is why he never drives, he’s remembering around the time Yamamoto’s fingers are pressing up under the hem of his shirt and the other’s breath is blowing warm against the back of his neck. As the driver Yamamoto needs both hands, ostensibly needs to keep his eyes on the road, and if he spends an alarming amount of time trying to twist back to look at Gokudera, at least the other can keep his hands safely at Yamamoto’s hips to avoid offering more distraction than what comes unavoidably from being pressed so close together. But with Gokudera driving Yamamoto is left to his own devices, and worse leaning in against the support of the other’s back, until Gokudera can feel the warmth of Yamamoto’s body even through the jacket he’s wearing against the chill of the wind. He’s already slowed significantly since they started, trying to cling to safety while he keeps his attention as fixed on the road as he can, but Yamamoto seems unfazed, is winding his arms around Gokudera’s waist more like they’re in bed than atop a motorcycle, and Gokudera is beginning to suspect the heat of breathing at the back of his neck is deliberate rather than accidental.

Then there’s a tug at one of his earrings, the faint clink of teeth catching at the metal, and Gokudera nearly swerves off the road in his haste to stop their forward motion.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he spits, tightening his hold on the handlebars and turning his head sharply to pull away from Yamamoto’s mouth. “You  _idiot_ , you’re going to get us both  _killed_.”

Gokudera shouldn’t be able to hear Yamamoto’s response. The wind makes it hard for him to hear his own speech, and with their forward motion any of Yamamoto’s words ought to be blown behind them and never make it to his ears. But Yamamoto’s lips are dragging against the bottom edge of his earrings again, he would swear he can hear the other’s breathing coming faster, and when Yamamoto says, “Hayato,” Gokudera can hear every soft syllable in spite of the wind.

“I am going to fucking kill you,” he grates, more to himself than Yamamoto, and starts looking for the nearest turnoff.

It’s another few miles, as it turns out. Irritation helps keep Gokudera’s attention on what he’s doing, at least, even when Yamamoto rocks closer against his back and his breath start ruffling against the back of Gokudera’s neck. It’s not deliberate, he thinks, if only because the hand pressed to the bare skin of his stomach hasn’t moved at all since Yamamoto made contact, but that’s not much comfort; that means Yamamoto isn’t  _trying_  to distract him as much as doing it accidentally, like he is physically incapable of maintaining a reasonable level of control over himself when they are this near.

Gokudera is minutes into a steady stream of cursing by the time he finally finds the turn, a narrow dirt path he’s never taken before. It’s good enough, gets them off the danger of the road and out of sight of likely passers-by, so when he jolts the motorcycle to a stop so he can twist around to glare at the other there’s no one to see him.

“You  _fucking idiot_ ,” he says, or starts to say, because Yamamoto’s mouth is crushing against his before he’s finished the second word. Gokudera’s still mad, he’s  _furious_ , but it just pushes him to lean into the kiss, to turn it from Yamamoto’s typical gentle affection into something harder and rougher. Gokudera reaches up with one hand, digs his fingers in against the back of Yamamoto’s neck, and the other is just opening his mouth for more when their balance starts to go.

The reflex to catch themselves makes their motion less than graceful. Yamamoto makes a noise of shock, one leg coming out to brace at the ground, and Gokudera starts to turn around before he’s completely let Yamamoto go, so his teeth drag at the other’s lower lip and his fingers dig harder than he intends into the back of the other’s neck. They catch themselves after all, if in a skid of dust and adrenaline, but the frantic rush of Gokudera’s pulse is enough to snap “Get  _off_ ” from his throat nearly before they’ve caught their balance.

“Hayato,” Yamamoto is saying, his hands sliding in farther, and Gokudera throws an elbow behind him, digging in so hard against Yamamoto’s ribcage he can hear the sound of the other’s breath rushing out of his lungs.

“Get off the damn bike.” He moves to shove Yamamoto back, forcing him off since he won’t go himself, and Yamamoto half-topples sideways and onto his own feet, his touch sliding away as he goes. It’s not that Gokudera minds the loss; it’s the irritation that makes him snappy, that is pulling a scowl over his face as he swings off himself so he can move to kick the stand into place.

“You’re an idiot,” he says without looking up, while his foot is still dragging a cloud of dust in its wake. “That was dangerous and  _stupid_ , if you’re going to be reckless don’t fucking make me help you with it.”

“Sorry,” Yamamoto says, his head ducked and his hands back behind him, pressed against the bike like that’s the only way he can keep them to himself. “It’s just distracting when we’re so close and you’re right there.”

“I can’t do  _anything_  with you,” Gokudera growls, and then he’s stepping in to pin Yamamoto back against the support of the motorcycle behind him. Yamamoto’s head comes up, his gaze locking in at Gokudera’s mouth like it’s drawn there magnetically, and Gokudera reaches out to wrap his fingers bracing at the back of the other’s neck so he can pick up where he left off. Yamamoto makes a little sighing sound against him, his hands sliding out from behind him to reach for Gokudera’s hips, and Gokudera had intended to stay angry for longer but it’s remarkably difficult with Yamamoto opening his mouth in offering and sliding his wind-chilled fingers against Gokudera’s skin as if to steal the other’s heat. He contents himself with growling rather than actually pulling away, and when Yamamoto gasps at the vibration Gokudera slides his tongue past the other’s lips, tightens his hold against Yamamoto’s neck so he can press in as far as he can get into the other’s mouth. He tastes clean and warm, like summer rain, and Gokudera can feel all the strength easing out of Yamamoto’s body as he capitulates to the force of Gokudera’s movements. They’re leaning back, most of Yamamoto’s weight tipped back against the motorcycle while Gokudera fits their legs together with speed born of so much experience he doesn’t even have to think about what he’s doing. He just moves forward, steps far inside Yamamoto’s personal space, so when he reaches out with his free hand it runs up against the soft of the other’s t-shirt without any effort at all.

He only pulls away once he’s sliding his fingertips down the fabric, dragging his touch hard as he goes so Yamamoto is shuddering under the friction before Gokudera has even properly touched him. Gokudera is breathing hard, all but panting for air, but Yamamoto looks dazed right out of situational awareness, he’s blinking like his eyes won’t focus and staring at Gokudera like everything else has completely faded from his attention.

“If you keep doing shit like this I’ll make you take your own bike, next time,” Gokudera grates, even though he knows it would take far more even than this to convince him to give up the warmth of Yamamoto pressed against him as they ride. But Yamamoto doesn’t know that, at least not in his current state, and the threat is worth it for the way his eyes go wide and his hold goes desperate at Gokudera’s waist.

“No, don’t,” he says, the gentle pleading that Gokudera always caves to, eventually. His hands are sliding up against Gokudera’s spine, pulling the other in close against him, and Gokudera lets himself be coaxed, steps in near enough that Yamamoto can press his nose to the other’s cheek and whine a faint protest against his skin. “I’m not trying to distract you, really.”

“It doesn’t matter what you’re  _trying_  to do,” Gokudera snaps. “You  _are_  distracting. We’re gonna crash someday if you keep  _touching_  me while we’re riding.”

Yamamoto’s forehead creases, his head tilting in faint confusion. “I have to hold onto you, though.” His eyelashes flutter, his gaze dropping from Gokudera’s eyes to his mouth. Gokudera can see the shiver run through him a moment in advance of Yamamoto licking his lower lip in what is far too sensual to be deliberate. “And we still have to get back on the one bike today.”

“Guess so.” Gokudera leans in like he’s offering a kiss, lets Yamamoto tip his head in expectation without ducking in to meet him. It’s better to wait, to let his heart race itself into thrilling adrenaline to the sound of Yamamoto’s speeding breathing as he fits his fingers under the hem of the other’s shirt, touches the very tips of his fingers to the trembling flat of Yamamoto’s stomach. “The Tenth would be upset if I just left you here on the side of the road, after all.”

Yamamoto huffs a laugh, his mouth curving warm into a smile, and Gokudera has to kiss him then, presses his lips to the offer in Yamamoto’s and shuts his eyes to everything but the soft give of the other’s mouth under his. Yamamoto’s fingers drag up his spine, pushing Gokudera’s shirt and jacket up more by accident than intention, but Gokudera’s motion has all the deliberation Yamamoto’s lacks. His touch slides down Yamamoto’s skin, fingertips bracing in against the top edge of the other’s jeans, and by the time Yamamoto realizes what he’s doing enough to draw back and gasp for air Gokudera’s pulling the zipper down.

“This is the only way we’re going to get home,” Gokudera manages, pressing his forehead to Yamamoto’s as the best defense against the urge to kiss him again. It’s still a temptation, with Yamamoto gasping for air against his lips and turning his head up to track Gokudera’s mouth, but Gokudera keeps his mouth free, keeps catching his breath as he pushes Yamamoto’s clothes loose around his hips. “You are so completely  _insatiable_ , this is the only way we can manage it.”

“What are you…?” Yamamoto starts as Gokudera fits his fingers in under the edge of the other’s clothes. Then Gokudera’s hand is where he wants it, he’s pressing in and Yamamoto’s words stall out into a groan as his hips rock up to meet the contact. “ _Ah_.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Gokudera growls, but he’s grinning hot and rough with pleasure, he’s drawing his hand tight around Yamamoto’s cock just for the broken sound of the other’s breathing catching in his throat. The hands against his back are drawing tighter, like Yamamoto is trying to urge him in closer, and if Yamamoto is breathing hard Gokudera’s not far behind, the adrenaline of the situation and the necessity of rushing turning directly into heat under his skin.

“Isn’t--this dangerous too?” Yamamoto asks. Gokudera presses his thumb against the resistance of Yamamoto’s cock, listens to the way Yamamoto shudders hard into his shoulder. “We could…someone might see us.”

“We’ve done worse,” Gokudera brushes the possibility aside. “This is still safer than me running us off the road.” He can’t see Yamamoto’s face anymore, just the soft dark of his hair and the line of his jacket, the straps at the shoulder forming a pattern so familiar Gokudera has to gaze at it for several seconds before he identifies it.

“Wait.” He pushes Yamamoto’s hand aside from where the other was working around to the front of his own jeans, urges him back so he can see the cut of the dark leather around his shoulders. Yamamoto goes without complaint, just a crease in his forehead to speak to his confusion as Gokudera’s hand stroking over him stills for a moment. “Are you wearing  _my_  jacket?”

“Huh?” Yamamoto looks down, stares blankly at the coat like he’s never seen it before. “Maybe? I just grabbed the one by the door.”

“You fucking idiot,” Gokudera sighs, but the words are warm with affection on his tongue, an outline of hope forming itself in the back of his thoughts. He lets Yamamoto go, reaches out to pull at the jacket instead. Yamamoto gusts an exhale, starts to form the words of “Sorry, Hayato,” but Gokudera shakes his head in rushed negation of the apology.

“Don’t  _apologize_.” This  _is_  his jacket, he knew it, but it was by the door from the last time he wore it, when they stayed in a hotel and…his fingers close on what he was looking for, the cool of foil against the inside pocket of the jacket, and Gokudera’s smile feels like victory.

He pulls the packet out before Yamamoto can track what he’s holding, steps back and clear of Yamamoto’s knees. The touch at his skin slides away, only the confusion creasing Yamamoto’s forehead speaking to his protest, but Gokudera doesn’t explain, just kicks against Yamamoto’s foot with the toe of his boot.

“Turn around,” he orders, moving in to grab at Yamamoto’s hip and urge him up and over while the other is still blinking in heat-slow consideration of Gokudera’s words. He’s quick enough to move with the push of Gokudera’s hand, although his hesitation once he’s standing says he still doesn’t completely understand what they’re doing. That’s okay. Gokudera just needs him pliant, not necessarily comprehending.

“Bend over,” and a hand at his shoulders is enough to push him over, the necessity of balance bringing Yamamoto’s hands out to catch against the frame of the motorcycle. He shifts his feet, steadying himself in expectation of something he clearly still doesn’t fully grasp, and Gokudera can feel the hot pleasure of dominance burn through him at the picture Yamamoto is making of himself, the unconscious arch of his back and the undone looseness at the waist of his jeans.

“Good,” he purrs, praise slow and syrup-sweet on his tongue, reaches out to push the hem of Yamamoto’s shirt up over the arch of his back. Yamamoto shudders at the touch, the reaction vibrating through his tense shoulders, and Gokudera moves fast, pulling his hand back down and dragging at the other’s clothes before Yamamoto has time to process what he’s doing. The dark jeans slide off his hips, bare the curve of his ass and the tension in his thighs, and Gokudera can’t help the sound he makes, the low rumble of appreciation that feels like a purr in his chest. It nearly drowns out Yamamoto’s sharp startled inhale, the gasp just flaring Gokudera’s blood hotter, until he’s stepping in to fit his feet between Yamamoto’s just so he can grind his hips in against the other’s, press his cock against Yamamoto’s ass through the denim of his jeans like the promise it is.

Yamamoto lets his breath out all at once, drops his head so Gokudera can see the curve at the back of his neck as he rocks his weight back. Gokudera isn’t even sure if Yamamoto is thinking about where they are, that someone could ostensibly drive past at any time and see him stripped bare for the world to see; if he is aware it’s not affecting his reaction, isn’t so much as muffling the rushed sound of his breathing.

“You’re lucky,” Gokudera says, staring at the line of tanned skin just above the collar of Yamamoto’s jacket as he tears the packet of lube open with his teeth. It’s a messy technique, he catches the manufactured taste of the liquid against his lips, but it serves his purposes, gets the packet open so he can spill it all across his fingers and the palm of his hand. “Good thing I thought to take some of these from that hotel, huh?” The foil goes into his pocket to be forgotten until they return home, freeing his other hand to close at Yamamoto’s hip while he drags slick fingers across overheated skin. Yamamoto jerks at the first slide of contact, drops his weight forward so it’s his elbows against the seat of the bike and not his hands, but Gokudera can hear his breathing getting louder and ragged with anticipation, and he’s not in the mood for teasing. The lube makes his motions easy, lets him sink his finger in past the first knuckle almost without trying, and Yamamoto is shuddering on another breath and tensing hard around Gokudera’s hand.

“Fuck,” Gokudera manages, pushes in deeper. He can feel Yamamoto relaxing to let him in, the capitulation clear even before he shifts his feet wider to brace his stance. “Christ, Takeshi.” Yamamoto is quivering like a leaf in a high wind, his legs shaking as badly as his breathing, and when Gokudera draws his hand back to experimentally press with a second finger there’s only a flicker of resistance before that one’s sliding in too to stretch the other wider for him. “You’re so fucking ready for me, what were you  _doing_  before we left?”

“Ah,” Yamamoto gasps. “Nothing, Hayato, I swear, I just--” Gokudera drives his fingers in hard, a sharp jerk of motion, and Yamamoto cuts himself off with a whine, an arch of his back so hard Gokudera can see the motion under the cover of his shirt and jacket alike. “I--I was just behind you while you were driving.”

“I know,” Gokudera growls in mock-anger, tightens his grip at Yamamoto’s hip so he can thrust harder with the fingers inside the other. Yamamoto drops farther forward still, presses his forehead down against the motorcycle seat between his elbows; Gokudera can see the unthinking angle of his wrists, the occasional flutter of motion in his fingers if Gokudera hits a particularly good spot on a thrust. “I could  _feel_  you, why do you think I couldn’t drive?” He pulls his hand free while Yamamoto is still mid-gasp, lets his hold at the other’s hip go so he can tug at his jeans with his clean hand. It’s harder to manage one-handed, but force compensates for the lack of dexterity and gets his jeans open nearly as quickly as he managed Yamamoto’s. “You were hard before we even made it off the  _street_.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Yamamoto pants as Gokudera closes his slick fingers on himself and strokes up over flushed-sensitive skin. “You’re so warm and you smell so good and you--”

“You’re absurd,” Gokudera says to cut off the flow of half-intelligible compliments. He’s aching, now, he can feel anticipation pooling low in his stomach and prickling through his fingertips as he reaches out to close his hands at Yamamoto’s hips and draw him back into alignment. Yamamoto goes, tips his weight back at the easy tug of Gokudera’s touch, and Gokudera doesn’t even take the moment to pause he normally would. It’s too much temptation, there’s too much anxious pressure from the situation alone, and he’s thrusting forward to slide the head of his cock into the heat of Yamamoto’s body almost before he’s lined himself up. The friction is instant satisfaction, pulls a groan out of his throat in place of breath, and instead of slowing he’s pushing in faster, like the sound of Yamamoto’s breathless moan is just more adrenaline under his skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera blurts, and “ _Hayato_ ,” Yamamoto wails, and Gokudera’s awareness of the situation gives way to the immediate burn of sensation. He’s falling into a rhythm without thinking about it, the pattern to his movement so well-studied it’s second nature to thrust in at  _that_  angle, to press in at  _this_  speed, to draw Yamamoto trembling and gasping underneath him without any conscious thought on his part. His attention is too far gone for deliberation anyway; his hands are tightening at Yamamoto’s hips, his motions driven by simple desire for more, more heat and more pressure and more  _Yamamoto_ , the ache to get closer jolting need up his spine. His feet are braced against Yamamoto’s, his hips coming forward as he drags Yamamoto back onto him, and he’s starting to go hazy and breathless when he realizes he hasn’t touched the other’s cock since Yamamoto turned around.

“Fuck,” he says again, all his coherency broken down to that one word, and he gets his hand to let go, leans forward enough that he can curl his fingers against the burning heat of Yamamoto’s length. It’s worth it for the way he can feel the other clench tight around him, for the sharp noise of relief that is nearly a sob in Yamamoto’s throat, and then he starts to stroke in time with the angle of his hips and it’s all but over right then. Yamamoto’s knees start shaking, like he’s about to collapse in spite of the support of the bike under his arms, his every breath is catching loud and choking, and Gokudera can’t see anything except for the curve of Yamamoto’s back and can’t hear anything but the gasp of Yamamoto’s reactions. Everything is going hot, his legs are trembling and his breath is coming in bursts, and then Yamamoto gasps and shudders and Gokudera can feel him start to come, the tension rippling through him just in advance of the spill of liquid across Gokudera’s fingers and onto the ground beneath them. Yamamoto chokes something, a breathless exhale that sounds like Gokudera’s name, and Gokudera doesn’t have time to let his grip on the other go before his vision flickers white with pleasure and his breathing catches into a groan in his throat. Heat crashes over him, an explosion of warmth and shuddering satisfaction all through his body, and for a few moments the only thing he can feel is electric pleasure coursing through all his veins.

It’s the sound of Yamamoto’s breathing that Gokudera hears first as his attention comes back, the gasp of pleasure still audible in the other’s throat and trembling through his legs. It makes Gokudera smile as he lets his hold on Yamamoto’s hip loosen, as he eases himself back until they’re both supporting their own weight instead of leaning against each other. It’s relatively easy for him to pull his clothes back into place; it takes Yamamoto somewhat longer even just to remember where he is, much less to straighten from his slump against the motorcycle and try to manage the intricacies of his jeans. In the end Gokudera has to help him, wrap his arms around the other’s waist so he can refasten the button and handle the zipper while Yamamoto hums satisfaction and all but melts back against him.

“Idiot,” Gokudera declares with no fire in the insult at all. “Keep your hands to yourself on the way back, okay?”

“Mm,” Yamamoto hums without opening his eyes or voicing a protest to their cut-short excursion, smiling as he twists around to fit his arms around Gokudera’s neck and press his mouth against the other’s hair. Gokudera huffs a laugh and pushes him away, if only so he can kick the stand for the motorcycle back and turn them around in expectation of getting back on the road.

Yamamoto  _doesn’t_  keep his hands to himself, of course. No sooner is Gokudera back on the motorcycle than Yamamoto is sliding in against his back, pressing just as close as he was on the way out. But he moves less, this time, just wraps his arms around Gokudera’s waist and turns his head to lean against Gokudera’s shoulder, and then goes as still and quiet as if he’s fallen asleep. He might actually be dozing; Gokudera doesn’t twist around to look, just takes the warmth at his back and the steady press of Yamamoto leaning against him as comfort while he focuses instead on getting them both home safely.

By the time they turn back onto their own street, Gokudera’s been smiling so long he’s forgotten he was ever angry.


End file.
